Free My American Unhappiness by Dean Bakopoulos

different, somehow, away from the counter. More fetching, if that's possible. Accessible. I resist an impulse to leap up and embrace her.
    "These are my nieces, April and May," I say. "This is Minn; she works at Starbucks down the street."
    "I want to work at Starbucks someday!" April says.
    "What are you doing here?" May asks. "Don't they have food there?"
    "I'm on my break," Minn says. "I'm in love with the mac-and-cheese, unfortunately for my thighs."
    Her thighs, which I can't help but look at given her comment, look remarkably lean and luscious in her tight black pants, but I don't remark on them. Sometimes I actually do know when to shut up.
    "We love the mac-and-cheese too," April says.
    "I get tomatoes on mine," May says.
    "I hate tomatoes," April says.
    "I'm with you," Minn says. "Never liked 'em."
    May looks crestfallen.
    "But I admire people who can eat 'em. That takes resolve."
    May smiles. April seems confused, but she smiles too.
    "Do you want to join us?" I ask Minn.
    Immediately after asking the question, I feel red with embarrassment. Of course she does not want to join us, to use her thirty minutes of downtime talking with a customer and his two overzealous nieces.
    "I'd love to," she says. She gets her book, her water glass, and her plastic number and slides into the booth next to me. And then she gives me this odd, wide-eyed look, as if she is suppressing a laugh. She raises her eyebrows some and I smile back. Then she turns to April and May and says, "Tell me, are you in school?"
    Our food arrives and we all blow on our steaming bowls, mixing our noodles up until they are cool enough to eat.
    The girls have launched into a long-winded and frenzied description of school—the names of their teachers, the bad kids in the front row, the hot lunch program, the book fair that they had last week, the state capitals, which they recite with blinding speed, alternating one with the other, and then, finally, as they slow down and May says, "Yeah, we like school, pretty much," April cries, "We love it!"
    "I always did, too," Minn says. "All the way through college."
    "What did you major in?" I ask.
    "Anthropology," she says, "with a minor in rural sociology."
    "Ah," I say.
    "Very practical, right?" Minn says. "And now I work at Starbucks."
    "That's so cool!" May says.
    We eat a little more, all of us eating at a fairly frenzied pace. I try to think of something to say, an anecdote of sorts that might also demonstrate my romantic interest in Minn. Something about going to movies alone and a trip I might take to Brussels.
    But before I can speak, Minn wipes her hands and mouth on her napkin, smiles at us, and says, "I'm sorry, I have to go back to work. My breaks are so short."
    "Okay, bye," April and May shout in unison.
    And then Minn looks at me and says, "Hey, Uncle Zeke, you should bring these girls in for hot chocolate or cookies one of these days."
    With that, Minn turns, a bounce in her gait, hands holding a large colorful purse in front of her, and exits Noodles. April and May and I all watch her, absolutely delighted.
    When I get home with the girls that night, we find my mother asleep on the couch.
    I quietly send the girls up to their room and instruct them to get started on their homework.
    Then I sit down at the edge of the couch and gently wake my mother, who sits up suddenly, takes a deep and violent breath, and begins coughing atrociously.
    I get up and bring her some water and she sips it slowly, gradually regaining control of her spastic lungs.
    "Are you okay?" I say.
    "Fine, fine," she says. "I swallowed my gum or something."
    "Okay," I say.
    "Did you have a nice time with the girls?" she asks.
    "We had a great time," I say. "We always do."
    "Did they eat supper?"
    "Mac-and-cheese," I say. "At Noodles."
    "Good, good. Thanks for doing that."
    "No sweat," I say. "What did the doctor have to say?"
    "He said, 'You're old.'"
    "What else, Mom?"
    "He said we'd take some more tests. More tests. More money